


Diplomatic Service

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Humor, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4830671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Hera</p><p>Avon and Tarrant are on a diplomatic mission to Tarl, but Tarlese diplomatic dress presents some interesting technical problems...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diplomatic Service

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).
> 
> Previously Published in Freedom City mailing list

'Tell me you're joking.' Tarrant's face registered amusement and resignation, with only a tinge of irritation.

Avon held up the extensively decorated flight suits. 'I admit this would not be my first choice in tailoring, Tarrant. But as Orac advises, Tarl has a somewhat unconventional hierarchy, in which dress plays a key role. Our choice is limited, to say the least. We must make the best of what we have.' He smiled tightly. 'But you have a choice, blue or red.'

The red was a harsh orangey-scarlet hue and far from flattering for Tarrant's colouring. He held the blue against himself. It stopped abut 4 inches shy of his ankles. The red was pooling to the floor over Avon's feet. Tarrant swapped the outfits over, and began the long process of unfastening what seemed like hundreds of gleaming silver buckles securing fabric straps, each fastening in five or six places as it crossed the garment. 'Couldn't they have used velcro or something? What did Soolin say these were for?'

'I thought it unwise to press her on her dead associate's wardrobe requirements. You are free to enquire yourself.'

A silent Tarrant persevered with the straps. 3 bands below the knees; 3 from knee to hip; 6 from waist to torso, with one long strap passing between the legs from the middle of the chest to the middle of the back, looped on the reverse to secure in place the 6 crossing bands at the meeting point. 4 slightly thinner bands circled each arm.

It wasn't even a particularly sexy garment; he could understand if it was leather or rubber or something but.. synth-cotton? 'Avon, there's no damned fabric in this, it's all straps! This is just ridiculous. Impractical.'

Avon shrugged. 'It is equally so for me. However,' and he removed a picture from inside his jacket, 'this is standard Tarl diplomatic dress. We could, if you prefer, ask Dayna to run us up a couple of little numbers...?' Certain of no dissent, Avon began to get changed.

Tarrant grimaced. The dignitary in the picture wore fairly plain black trousers, with some chains adorning the sides. But the top was a rigid golden 'V' shape, leaving part of the chest and almost all of the stomach bare, pointing very phallically to the groin. The hair was styled almost vertically.

Tarrant hadn't seen Avon naked in a long while, but couldn't imagine that, at his age, such couture would be flattering. Even Tarrant had reflexively sucked in his stomach. If status really was reflected by the volume of shiney accessories you could carry off, well, perhaps this was as good a compromise as any.

'No,' said Tarrant. 'I trust Orac to have selected wisely. And I think if we commissioned Dayna on a sewing machine, she's pre-stitch bullet holes in for later revenge...'

Avon had by now dispensed with his own clothing - strange, thought Tarrant, seeing him without that leather armour. He tried very hard not to chuckle at Avon's predictably black underpants - well, at least they weren't leather. Although he now owed Dayna 100 credits on that bet. But shorts not Y-fronts, so Soolin owed *him* 50.

Avon wasn't in *bad* shape. For his age. It was so hard to tell usually, under all those layers. His arse looked quite perky under the tight stretch fabric, and while not exactly muscular, you couldn't call him fat, either.

'If it will help, Tarrant, I can ask Orac to record this so you can review it in your own time.'

Tarrant blushed. He hadn't realised he was staring. Avon, thankfully, was again occupied with getting himself strapped in, fingers flying nimbly over each buckle-fastening, pulling the fabric close around his legs and arms. Tarrant yanked off his own work clothes, wishing he had remembered to do his laundry, or at least found some semi-clean shorts to put on, and very rapidly slipped into the coveralls. He hoped Avon hadn't noticed he was 'going commando', as they called it at FSA.

Avon was struggling a little with the back fastenings. Well, thought Tarrant, I can't exactly offer to help now, can I? Not when he thought I was looking at him like *that*. As a result, the chest and back straps were not as tight as the arms and legs and Avon looked a little .. well.. crumpled. Not as impressive as he had perhaps hoped. Not to worry, thought Tarrant. It 'll really annoy him if they assume I'm in charge. But then, which of us looks like a captain?

'Before you do that, Tarrant,' Avon interrupted as Tarrant began on the waist strap, 'and forgive me if I offend you but, it will be a long journey and..'

'Yes Avon. I've been to the little boys' room.'

Avon smirked. Then changed to a beguiling smile with alarming speed. 'Would you like some help? We are a rather pressed for time.' Which meant, how can it possibly take you 3 hours to finish a one hour routine maintenance on the drive, Tarrant?

Tarrant sighed in resignation. 'Yes, thank you.'

It was actually quite relaxing, being dressed by Avon. He moved quickly and precisely up each leg in turn, encasing Tarrant's long limbs. Next he secured the centre strap - a little tight around the crotch, but not distressingly so. More.. snug. Then the arms, and by now Tarrant was enjoying the services of his valet, amused at his self appointed 'leader' in a subservient role.

Until Avon began the waist and chest straps.

Each strap passing underneath the central band tightened it, just a fraction.

Increased pressure, just a fraction.

Lifted Tarrant's balls, just a fraction.

And six in the front and six at the back was twelve fractions which added up to...

Tarrant multiplied out the discomfort and weighed it against the embarrassment of explaining to Avon why he would like him to start again, when they were so short of time. It equalled a marginally physically uncomfortable journey versus a mentally tormented one.

'All right?' asked Avon.

'Fine,' said Tarrant.

Avon grabbed his own six buckle boots and slipped his feet in, bending at the waist to fasten them.

Tarrant followed suit until he realised...oh.

Then he tried bending at the knees..... ah.

Then he tried sitting on the chair and leaning over..... gosh.

'Oh for God's sake Tarrant. Get a move on.' And Avon knelt at Tarrant's feet to fasten the boots. A sight which, to Tarrant's mind, was worth any price.

***

Tarrant was glad when they were finally in flight. The long walk to the ship, followed by the harsh vibrations as Scorpio took off, had left him with a partial erection, not unpleasant but entirely inappropriate. Because of the restrictive nature of his clothing, however, it was reluctant to subside. At least Avon hadn't noticed, or if he had, was decent enough not to comment. Hopefully. And the flight projection showed no turbulence ahead.

He sighed. 4 hours. And Avon was back in one of his sulky moods. No chance of a few hands of diffraction to pass the time then. Not that Tarrant ever won, and he was sure Avon kept changing the rules on him, but at least it would have kept them occupied.

Perhaps he could draw him out a little by talking shop; then they might be able to progress to small talk, and finally a real conversation. Then perhaps not. Avon might have been storing some imagined slight or error for just this occasion. But after a little over 3 and three quarter hours of total silence, Tarrant cracked.

'What's the plan when we get there, Avon?'

'Oh, just the usual. But I forget,' and he gave that patronisingly insincere look, 'you haven't been involved in diplomatic work before.'

Like you have, you arrogant git. But Tarrant just nodded. If they were going to have a fight, best keep it for the way home.

'Well, Tarrant. It's all standard. We meet their political advisers for a briefing. They talk us through the information we have already received, try and beat us down on whatever concessions they want before Chalsa graces us with his presence. Then we persuade him to come to the summit.' And hard eyes fixed him. 'All I require you to do is get me there in one piece, thereafter keep quiet and look decorative. And if it looks like I am in any danger, get me out of there alive.'

'Keep quiet and look decorative? And that's your assessment of my capabilities?'

And now the eyes upon him were pure scorn. Tarrant knew that somehow, unwittingly, he had just stuck his head in the particle accelerator...

'Do not forget that we have had ample demonstration of your negotiating technique in... what was it?... a nervous situation.'

Oh god. In with both feet that time.

'It happened, Avon. I can't undo it.'

'I know Tarrant. We all know. We all know that you have slept with the enemy.'

Tarrant voiced the suspicion, the very distasteful suspicion, that he had held silent for a long time. 'I assumed you were angry because I didn't kill her when I had the chance. I didn't realise it was simply because it was *me*,' and his body tensed, ready to defend himself from whatever attack Avon might launch, 'and not *you*'

Avon moved as if to hit him; his fist stopped half way there. Thinking better of it Avon? Angry at yourself?

But Avon's tactics were simply taking a more subtle direction. His voice changed to the low, seductive purr he used when asking Dayna or Soolin to fetch drinks or any other menial tasks; the purr that made them smile and agree. *But if he thinks he can bill and coo me into docility...*

'Tell me, Tarrant,' he coaxed. 'What was she like?'

Tarrant blinked.

'What was it like,' and Avon's fingertips slid a little across the desk towards Tarrant, stroking the smooth surface, 'to be with her?'

'That's none of your business.'

'Well of course not. But I have a .. natural curiosity.'

'Unlike you, Avon, I am a gentleman. I repeat. It's none of your business.'

'Oh come along Tarrant. We're all men together, surely. Now tell me about her.' Avon looked from beneath lowered lashes; *almost as if he were trying to seduce me*. 'Tell me all about her. Start with the feel and taste of her mouth.'

Avon's intentions were becoming forcefully apparent as Tarrant's partial erection began to think about fulfilling its potential. He had noticed. *Bastard*.

'Tell me about your arms pulling the soft smooth flesh to you, Tarrant; the sensation as your skin slid against her beautiful naked body; tell me how her nails traced their way down your back and you moaned at the sweet pain.'

Tarrant swallowed. 'You seem to know an awful lot about her technique.' He fought not to move his hips; the memories were producing a physical effect exactly as Avon would have predicted. Tarrant's cock now formed a sizeable mound pointing towards his chest.

Avon continued unabated. 'Tell me how it felt when you slid inside her hot wetness and felt her grip you. How did you do it? Who was in charge? Tell me how it feels to have her legs wrapped around your waist and her teeth bite down on your shoulder as she climaxes.'

'ENOUGH!, Avon!' Tarrant slammed his fist down on the console in frustration. 'What do you want? I can't tell you I'm sorry, that would be a lie.'

'Me, Tarrant?' And innocence batted its eyelids. 'Oh, nothing. Slave, estimated time to planetfall?'

'We will be ready to commence landing procedures in two point oh six minutes, Master.'

'Thank you, Slave. Tarrant, *if* you could concentrate long enough to get us into position?'

***

Tarrant spent the whole of the briefing fidgeting and looking agitated, while fending grim daggers from Avon's eyes. Damn it, it just *would* not go down. Bastard Avon. Thankfully, they were sitting at a table. Thankfully, it did not have a glass top. So by walking very closely behind Avon on the way in, leaning on a chair as quickly as possible, and sitting down very swiftly after that, he was able to conceal his discomfort, at least physical discomfort, until he and Avon were alone waiting the arrival of Chalsa. They had 10 minutes ... 10 minutes of abuse ahoy, thought Tarrant.

'Tarrant, what the *hell* do you think you're doing?' demanded Avon. 'Your brain might as well be back on Scorpio. And we can all see the extent of your intelligence. Concentrate, damn it!'

'It's your fault, Avon,' said Tarrant, aware of how childish he sounded but unable to think of any other way to put it. 'You must have known what would happen.'

'I assumed that, like any normal man, you would have mild discomfort but would have the ability to maintain some semblance of self control!'

'It's this damned outfit! It won't go away!'

'Have you tried thinking about Vila? No, given your condition, I don't want to know the answer to that. We have ten - now eight - minutes before the most important meeting in the history of the resistance. What do you propose to do to ensure Chalsa does not regard you, and by association me, as a gibbering adolescently hormonal idiot? Get rid of it, Tarrant.'

'And how exactly do you propose I do that? These things aren't made for easy access you know.'

'Oh for God's sake. Use your imagination.'

'That's what got me like this in the first place! Oh .. all right, but at least turn your back Avon.'

Tarrant pressed his palm firmly against his cock, frantically rubbing through the fabric, the buckles jingling slightly with the rhythm. He stifled a cry... oh it was good, but..

'It's no use Avon. I'm too far away, I'll never manage it in time. You'd better send me back to Scorpio.'

'And who's going to make sure I stay alive if I do that? Use your head.'

Tarrant knew he looked pitiful; a grown man uncontrollably tumescent as a teenager. Pitiful and.. evidently pitied.

Not in a sympathetic way, of course.

'Get on the table,' barked Avon, moving a pitcher of water and glasses aside. Tarrant hopped up and Avon grabbed his knees and spread his legs apart. 'We now have less than 6 minutes. Close your eyes and think about whatever will get this over and done with. And don't say *anything*.'

What? Oh God no... no... but...

Avon's hand was sliding beneath the centre strap, his large hand making its heat felt through the thin faux-cotton, fingertips quickly locating the head.

'Avon...'

'Close your eyes and shut up!' As darkness engulfed him, Tarrant felt only friction and heat, sensations intensified by the uncertainty, unpredictability of his partner's movements. It could be anyone.. think of your most exciting experience...

He wanted to think of Avon.

Avon's head was between his legs now, he couldn't think why, he didn't have access to...

Oh. My. God.

Avon was on his balls, hand still rubbing hard and fast at Tarrant's cock, fingertips still gliding over the head, and now his hot, damp breath was permeating the fabric, tingling, caressing, enrobing. Avon too seemed rather excited; his mouth releasing hard, sharp bursts of warm air, and Tarrant began to moan...

The heat stopped abruptly as Avon snapped, 'Keep quiet.' Tarrant half-nodded and half rocked his head as Avon once more encased his balls through the fabric, his hand now moving urgently. The knowledge that they could be discovered, interrupted at any moment, only added to Tarrant's excitement. As Avon's hand pushed down harder yet, and his teeth teased, a hint of a bite, Tarrant finally gained release, biting the inside of his cheek to hold the scream in.

Avon gave him only a few seconds to recover before dragging him to his feet.

'Avon.'

'Not now, Tarrant, we can deal with your protestations of undying love later.'

'Um... no, Avon.' Tarrant was looking at Avon's own crotch. He had not remained completely unmoved by the experience.

'I know, Tarrant, but my garment is less... restrictive. I'm sure I can make it go away soon enough. What we need to think about now is *that*' The spreading damp patch on Tarrant's lower stomach and also.. a darker area lower still. *Where Avon was drooling over me. Copiously.* No, no, Tarrant. Be sensible. A picture of a naked Vila performing stomach crunches was already playing in his mind.

The door opened, heralding the arrival of Chalsa. 'Face me,' hissed Avon, grabbing for the pitcher and a glass. 'So you see, Tarrant,' and he poured deliberately clumsily, drenching Tarrant's front. Ice water, of course. All right, Vila, you can stop exercising now. Your services are no longer required.

'Oh, I'm so sorry,' Avon's voice said. But at least he had the decency to wipe his damp hands on his own trousers. 'Chalsa. May I present my,' and Tarrant braced himself for the insult. Pilot? Subordinate? Concubine? He was pleasantly surprised by, 'colleague, Del Tarrant.'

***

It was a long, dull meeting, but it was fascinating to watch Avon in action. The lying, cheating, devious bastard could be quite a charmer when the occasion demanded, although Tarrant was sure one or two moments of insincere flattery only sneaked past because the Tarlese were not speaking their native language. The end result was an agreement to attend the summit, although Chalsa still had many unresolved issues in respect of Zukan's involvement. One step at a time.

Tarrant spent most of his time nodding sagely, only being called upon to discuss flight paths. At least I'm not a completely spare part, he reflected. But he was glad to back on board Scorpio, no life-threatening events having come to pass.

Once they were on the programmed route, he passed control over to Slave, and tried to work out what had been going on in Avon's mind. It was possible he was losing the plot. Avon looked faintly amused, but was managing not to smirk overtly.

But it did get to Avon. He can't deny he was interested. And while he's in a good mood, perhaps I could make a few enquiries of my own...

'So, Avon.' Make it conversational. 'Why - exactly - were you so excited earlier?'

Avon smiled and shrugged. 'Risk is a recognised aphrodisiac.'

Oh, Avon. You lie so beautifully, but I can still tell. I've had so much experience of you now. And if I keep quiet, you'll show me just how clever you want me to think you are.

Avon continued. 'Simply the danger of an unknown situation. Add to that the importance of the negotiations, and the result is a very natural human response.'

' I see. So the proximity of my obscenely stiff erection had nothing to do with it?'

Avon touched his fngertips, pretending to think, then opened his arms in his 'I'm a reasonable man' gesture. 'Nothing at all.'

'So you weren't thinking, even momentarily, about Servalan being where you were. Her mouth against my bare skin. Her tongue lapping its way up my cock.' Tarrant forgot how to inhale as he waited for a reply.

Avon gave it due consideration before fixing Tarrant's eyes. 'You're playing a dangerous game, Tarrant.' He moved to stand at one of the forward consoles, and punched up some flight data that was easily accessible from his own position. Tarrant followed and stood behind him, aware that Avon was waiting for him to respond, watching as Avon flicked between screens of meaningless numbers, neither reading nor absorbing.

'It isn't just you who enjoys risk, Avon.' So close now; he could feel his own warm breath deflecting from Avon's neck back to him. He took Avon's shoulders and countered the slight resistance to manoeuvre him so they were face to face. Chest to chest. Tarrant's errant erection had returned.. Avon's too, now.. one inch closer and they would touch...

Avon looked, in order: angry, pained, confused, apologetic, irritated, confused again, and Tarrant's cock twitched, lustful.

'Fuck it,' Avon said, landing his mouth on Tarrant's, and his hands on Tarrant's arse as he wrestled him down to the floor, ignoring the wallop of his elbow banging off a chair on the journey. Tarrant rolled on top of him, panting, 'You really *do* get off on danger, don't you?'

Avon pulled Tarrant's head back down, and his tongue invaded the wet cavity. Tarrant paused to ask, 'Are you sure?'

Apparently so. Avon re-engaged Tarrant's mouth while simultaneously producing a knife from the top of his boot and starting to carefully slice through Tarrant's bindings. Tarrant grabbed the knife and cut the strap, then the rest of the fabric at the groin - Avon was being too cautious, he needed this *now*. But he handed the knife back to Avon, indicating he should do the same - no chance Tarrant was going to risk making him a eunuch at this stage of the game. You could take trust too far.

Avon took slightly longer, having two layers of fabric to cut through. As he watched, Tarrant pulled his prick free, widening the tear to release his balls, too; then gripped himself firmly and began long strokes, ready to exchange as soon as Avon was ready.

Avon, however, had other ideas. As soon as his own erection was free, he pushed Tarrant onto his side and turned to take Tarrant into his mouth, presenting in turn his own cock.

Avon's mouth was hot and wet, his lips tight along the shaft, his tongue agile, circling, slipping, sliding. As Tarrant took Avon's length into his own mouth, Avon began to release tiny moans, the vibrations echoing through every inch of Tarrant's flaming body. As Tarrant slid over Avon, his mouth faster and faster paced, Avon began to suck frantically, taking Tarrant in deeper, deeper, his glans now touching the back of Avon's mouth, further, further, further, until he was entirely sheathed in Avon, the tip rubbing against the back of Avon's throat. Avon's hands were pushing his arse, urging him to go harder, faster, to plunder and pillage, Avon's mouth awash with saliva. My God, thought Tarrant. Avon is slavering over my cock and I've done this, I've made him so he can't help himself.

He dragged his way back along Avon's shaft and lapped at the slit, tasting the salt and sour precum with its thick texture, loving that taste. As he began to suck Avon back into him, he was startled by Avon's cum hitting the back of his throat. He forced himself not to jerk away; to taste and swallow deeply.

A flicker of surprise entered Tarrant's mind that Avon hadn't just stopped, wasn't *that* big a bastard, but cognisance was fleeting; the next moment his body blanked out all thought. If Avon's groans of pleasure were a guide, this was a taste he enjoyed very, very much.

Satiated, both rolled onto their backs, cramped in the tight space between the rows of work stations. Struggling for anything to say, but one of them had to; Tarrant came up with, 'That was quite something.'

'Yes.' And they both pushed up on their arms and sat, legs bent, looking at each other with degrees of embarrassment.

'How do you propose we explain the state of our clothes?' asked Tarrant. They did look somewhat ridiculous, tightly bundled up with limp dicks flopping out.

'I propose we don't, and change into survival suits before we get back.' And with fond logic, 'It will be accepted. This is not the type of occurrence anyone would imagine coming to fruition.'

'Fair enough.' Tarrant reached for an arm buckle to begin the process of undressing.

'Ah.' Avon touched Tarrant's hand lightly. 'I was wondering... We have a few hours left to travel. Would you care for a few games of diffraction, to pass the time?' Tarrant didn't see the connection until Avon, reaching to the side to collect the discarded blade, added, 'Perhaps 2 bands a hand?'

Already set on playing to lose, Tarrant got up to fetch the cards.


End file.
